


What came first; the fear, or thunder?

by heizl



Series: Marvel One Shots [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Dialogue Light, Emotions, Gen, Internal Monologue, References to Depression, Thor (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22489246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heizl/pseuds/heizl
Summary: A man's weakness is what makes or breaks him. Thor only put on a strong front. Or maybe, that's just what everyone assumed him to be and he never dismissed the claims. When he really was a scared child inside.A lifetime of preparing for the future doesn't mean you're ready for it. And sometimes, we just don't want to deal with it.Sometimes our demons win. But sometimes, we leash them.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Series: Marvel One Shots [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1211331
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	What came first; the fear, or thunder?

**Author's Note:**

> "Every weakness contains within itself a strength." — Shusaku Endo

What does it take to break the man with a heart full of electricity; the man that traveled to Hel, and back again, the man that could crush a boulder with his bare hands? To bring a king to his knees, begging the norns to take him, take him away. To keep him, rid of him, do whatever the hel they wanted with him as long as he was away from here.

Taking away the woman that put a twinkle in his eye, that proved Midgardians had a heart (at least some of them); it stung, of course. Like rubbing a pound of salt, and lemon, and disease into an open wound. His family hadn’t necessarily welcomed Jane with open arms, and his father died still hopeful that Thor would rekindle the shy crush him and Sif shared as children. 

And it's not like he even talked much about their breakup, except a few angsty posts on Twitter that garnered a tiny bit of sympathy (and many crying emojis).

Destroying his home was another punch to the gut, albeit stronger; though, and he'd quote this 'til the day he died, a once man once told him: Asgard isn't a place— it's people. Unless you were to take those people away; a city once coated in gold, beautiful enough to be reproduced on a Hallmark greeting card (oh, yes, they did make an Asgardian set, and yes, he thought about sending one to Fandral). 

Anything left of Asgard was in ruins, buildings turned to rubble, and ash, and decay. Golden faces matched the cities exterior, once blissful, careless smiles turning lifeless underneath Thor's feet— a nightmare he couldn't stop reliving. Day in, night out.

Close his eyes and he was back there again, taste of metallic numb on his tongue.

And, Loki. The flashbacks that made him flinch and flee amidst a busy meeting more often than anything else. How his skin turned a shade of pale under strong purple fingers Thor couldn't even imagine, before that day. Choking on his own blood, one final, last stale breath leaving his body.

He'd seen him die before. Was use to this cat and mouse game Loki'd play. But, it was always routine he'd come back. He'd meet him again, and Loki would be all sinister smiles, chuckling because it was only another one of his sick jokes.

As they grew older and were finding more independence, they also found a tension between them. Thor's anger was only harder to control as what would've been considered his 'teen phase'.

Loki loved pushing his buttons. He'd get Thor heated, agitate him to the point of seeing red. Beg him to take a swing at him, bet he couldn't. Only to snicker when Thor'd go flying and tumble down a cliff, his illusion fading to a pale yellow nothing. (“ _How do you still fall for that_?”)

That kind of sick joke. And, he'd admit it. He was still waiting for him. For the punchline he'd lost faith in ever hearing.

Thor would wake up in the middle of the night on the daily. He'd at least stopped screaming. But sheets still clung to his sticky, reddened skin. There he was, trapped in an airtight glass box, feet cemented in quicksand, vocal cords shattered, and there was no way out. 

Or at least, that’s how it felt. Because when his eyes would flutter, open, to a world of darkness, lingering images of what he’d lost, what he could’ve saved... nothing would satiate him and keep him at bay, keep him from passing over the border to completely insanity. Nothing could fix him, help him, save him.

Nothing except the thing he’d sworn to never depend on. 

The first time he’d been caught drinking was after a rambunctious night of father’s friends coming over for a grandeur dinner. His friends were… they were a pair of important someones, possibly rulers from another nebula. Who knew, and who cared. All Thor could focus on was nicking a bottle of bitter mead and drinking himself not silly, but at least to a state of relaxation. Where he didn't feel like the weight of the nine realms was on his, at the time, leaner shoulders.

He'd found his way to the library, because he knew it was the one place no one would look. No one, except the one that'd always hold the bottle back from him. 

It wasn’t even like his parents cared all too much if he had a few sips of something during a party. It wasn’t going to hurt him, and it was all fun, in celebration with the festivities. 

But Loki could see the look in his eyes, or rather, lack of. His pupils blown out as he nursed that bottle like a damn clutch. Clutching onto life, grasping with open arms.

Thor knew where Loki usually holed himself, and that’s where he sat. Near the back, in the darkest corner. For the comfort of being surrounded by Loki’s favorite books, for the comfort of anything other than the deadly nectar that coated his lips and burnt its way down his throat.

So, Loki sat next to him, knees tucked to his chest, a hand to Thor's forearm. He always looked so pensive, like he wanted to say far too much, yet nothing at all. His mouth opened, then closed again, and all he could do was sigh. Pushed his arm down, bottle now out of his reach and placed upon a high shelf. Not like Thor couldn't reach it, considering he was the taller one. But it's the sentiment that counts.

It was only supposed to be one. A few sips of one drink, and then Thor was drinking every last bottle left in their shared fridge like a frivolous college student.

Technically homeless, he'd been staying at the Avengers tower. Also not that he had a choice, since the world was nothing short of chaotic and they had to stick together in case something came up (which, something always did).

Which was damn hard. They could pull their weight and make things work when they needed to on the battlefield, but it'd be a lie if he said they weren't constantly giving each other headaches, nearly every minute.

Eventually, Tony bounced, once they'd concluded there was nothing more they could do. Said something about wanting to actually continue his life that he'd put on hold ten something years ago. 

Left all his crap behind though, including the small amount of alcohol he'd personally amassed for his own hard nights. Some scotch and lagers; wasn't a lot, but that wasn't the point.

It was hard for Thor to feel any kind of buzz that was calming enough for his own tastes— being, he just wanted to forget, be left in a mindless haze. 

At first. 

Wasn't long before he was spiraling, consumed by his own pity and selfish needs. The God had become indistinguishable from any other household man. 

* * *

Five years had gone by, at a paralyzed snails pace. The memories were still fresher than ever. And the neck of a glass bottle was his comfort now, his only. His best friend. Was his reason for living, only motivation to get out of bed in the morning. The nightmares only grew worse, continued when he was awake. No escape. His reflection mocked him. So he stopped leaving his house altogether.

He couldn’t place a timeframe on when he’d moved out (or, was he kicked out? Might’ve been, he did vaguely remember chucking a bottle at someone’s head when they told him to go with Steve to fucking group therapy. What a joke.)

But now here he was, in a pair of stained track pants and a thrifted maternity shirt, sitting in a shack that would offend a closet to compare it to. The place was bare and dingy; hardly any furniture than what was needed, even the sofa they had looked run down. Korg haphazardly put some posters up. But that was pretty much it. His bedroom was nothing more than a mattress, a guitar, some books he wasn't going to read (only had them because their covers were green with gold engraving), and too many dirty hoodies thrown about. 

He’d help build some of their home. When they'd moved to the village, 'New Asgard' as they called it, he'd tried, at first. Tried being a handyman, a drill instead of a hammer. Built a few places for people, helped reconstruct the general store, gave up halfway through on his own abode. Decided kicking back over a six pack of Brewskis was a better idea.

They'd never had video games on Asgard. Sure, they were more technologically advanced than the other realms, but they used technology as… resources. For problem solving. For fun, they'd go horsebacking riding and share tales around a campfire. 

So video games were almost as addictive as the beer he sipped. What made them so seductive was the promise of being anyone you want. In video games, you aren't yourself. Taken out of your own miserable situation and put in a different storyline. 

That's all Thor wanted. To rid the earth of himself. He despised Thor. 

Soon his daily ritual went in this order; wake up, drink, order a pizza, drink, play some MMO (while drinking) until the crack of dawn until he passed out on the couch.

He wouldn't be caught dead without a drink in his hands, but is that what would eventually catch up to him? He’d survived all the stupidity of his childhood, the meaningless challenges him and Loki would dare each other to; throwing rocks at fabled creatures that’d surely eat them for breakfast, only for pride and later mockery.

Would he meet his maker from the very drinks he couldn't stop fucking pounding until his head was doing the same; pounding and throbbing against his skull, like his brain was vacuum sealed? 

No one ever asked. Why he drank, if he was okay. Why he'd fallen off the face of the Earth. Val'd occasionally stop by, knocking on the door to drop off some crops. She’d offer him an understanding smile, a hug too if he'd accept it, and be on her way.

The few times a month he’d saunter out to the village, gazes would be averted, like he was a walking plague. His hair grew longer, resembling something of dreads. He’d given up on taming it, much like his beard. Didn’t care so much about how he dressed either. Only his self destructive hobbies.

He wanted to forget the world they lived in. A world full of hurt, for the one’s lost, the ones taken before their time. Hate and anger, directed towards himself mostly, towards the higher above. Towards the one that did this. He wanted to forget he was ever an Avenger. Some kind of sick joke that was.

Sometimes his thoughts would torment him, and he'd wonder what Loki would think of him now. The drinking, there wouldn't be as much judgement for that. More so questioning stares until Thor cracked and spilled everything to him.

But… everything else. How he couldn't even get off his own ass. Took a sip to Pietro. Another to Rhodey. A couple bottles for Loki.

Until he couldn’t forget anymore. He wasn’t allowed to forget, because he was still a hired employee of the super secret boyband the world equally loved, and hated. His problems were looking right back at him as he opened their front door to a remarkably tame familiar green fellow, and his favorite vermin. He always thought Rocket was precious, and made his childhood self happy (the only pets they were allowed were their horses. And Sleipnir, but his dad never wanted Loki around him.)

A bad idea is giving a man with static for a brain the responsibility of resurrecting the dead. Playing literal God instead of demi.

Everyone had changed. Some for the better; Bruce, mostly. Cap had aged, starting to look more like he'd come from the forties. At least seeing Natasha made him feel better; he wasn't the only mess there.

Still, there was shame in the pit of his gut. Maybe he couldn't feel his emotions, but he didn't want people seeing him. Not like this. A hollow shell of the Thor they knew. 

He hid behind a front. If he wasn't smashing buttons on a controller, he was clicking one instead, scrolling through Netflix and YouTube.

He'd consume a lot of Midgardian media. The Big Lebowski gave him inspiration. More so in looks than anything.

He'd use humor to his advantage, to get everyone laughing with him, instead of at him. A real jokester. Not that they were fooled.

And when Tony'd rejoined them, solemnly announcing what their next mission was; he froze.

His heart was palpitating. Great, maybe this was it.

He was part of the team traveling back to Asgard. Back to a time where Loki was still tossing a ball around for his own entertainment, where his mother donned a beaded dress, and his parents breathed.

The five years weren't enough. Had been even longer since the thought of his mom being alive and well was a reality. 

He couldn't. He just… he couldn't do it. But he was the only one that knew where the ether was. Only one that had been to Asgard, knew it like the back of his palm.

His fingers tightened around the can he clutched, denting under the pressure.

* * *

Just this one mission. That's all he needed to focus on. But Asgard messed with him; the scent of sweet alyssum and crisp, fresh air hit him as he traced the very halls he used to run down. Guards passing by that once humored his and Loki’s tomfoolery. He was needing his crutch. He couldn’t do this, he can’t—

Everything was overwhelming. He spun on his heel, opposite direction of Rocket, and like that, he was gone. Taking off.

Only the weak hide behind fear. But he’d accepted this long ago; Thor was weak, he was pathetic, he was a fucking joke. Any opportunity to hide behind a mask, he'd take it. He could afford the risk. At least, that's what he told himself.

He found himself standing in his dad's cellar, full of locally made wines and meads. His body vibrated.

He’s stuck between two mountains. Mountain A being his need to drink, quench his thirst. He was dehydrated, crawling on his belly, like a baby.

Mountain B represented fate. The possibility they could undo the snap, bring everyone back. Their friends, their team, their family. 

He’d once been called mighty. The God of thunder. Strongarm. But could he climb his way up a smooth hill? No rope, no safety net. All or nothing.

His teeth were grit. His father's cellar was so tempting. He just wanted to live there and endlessly indulge.

But outside, through a stained glass window, he could hear the chirp of birds. See the blurred shadows of kids tussling in the sparring grounds.. 

What makes a man strong, is his will to overcome his weakness. Use it to his advantage. Make it his power. Stop fearing what people deem as weak.

The door shut behind him. He was still unsure, of course. The next few days were going to be messy, no matter what the outcome was.

He could ignore his problems. He could attempt to ignore his memories and thoughts, his mom's nagging voice that he was meant for so much more.

But he couldn't ignore the tears of mothers praying for their lost sons. Natasha crying into the crust of a sandwich. 

His steps echoed against the marble walls, and as he passed an empty corridor, he caught Loki smirking at him beside his reflection. He was locked in his cell, so he knew it wasn't him.

One deep breath through his nose.

Though, in his voice, he heard, "My, how you've changed."

"Is it that bad?" Thor almost laughed. He knew.

But Loki simply replied, "Change isn't a bad thing. Not when you'll always be an oaf."

Thor heard a knock, then pitter pattering. Rocket was scratching against the ground, waving in his direction. "You gonna help me or just mope around?"

The silhouette of Loki nodded before fading.

"Of course," he said, looking behind himself one last time before catching up to Rocket.

**Author's Note:**

> One of the main things I disliked about Endgame was how they used Thor's alcohol abuse as a punchline. They could've used it for interesting character growth, but it was a wasted opportunity
> 
> So I wanted to write about it instead.


End file.
